Threads of Time
by Ceresi
Summary: If you could go back and change the past, make it what you wanted it to be, would you do it? Harry would. Post-OotP, spoilers, and slash.


**Title:** Threads of Time   
  
**Author:** Ceresi   
  
**Rating:** R   
  
**Spoilers:** SS, CoS, PoA, GoF, OotP   
  
**Warnings:** Slash, of the abundant sort. Some blood and gore, hence the 'R'.   
  
**Author's Notes:** _Huge_ thanks to both of my betas, Ellipsis and Sarah. They are both awesome people and deserve huge amounts of praise and hugs for making sense of my fic. This would also be a good time to mention that the squiggles - or tildes (~) - show flashbacks. I was going to put them in italics, but italics get hard to read after a while. 

  


~"There wasn't anything that you could have done, Harry."

  


Hermione's voice rang out from behind him, clear and sweet. He glanced swiftly over his shoulder - there was her familiar shape, her shadowed brown eyes. Crookshanks pressed against her ankles as he so often did, eyes flashing in the solitary light of Harry's lamp.

  


Without responding, he turned back to his book, forced his thoughts to follow the path that the words laid out. It was dreadfully boring, but he was used to it by now.

  


Hermione moved silently to his side. She put her hands on the table, so that he could see them, and bent to catch his eye.

  


Irritated, he looked up.

  


"There wasn't anything that you could have done." Her eyes were like inkwells, colorless in the gloom. Her mouth moved but sound didn't seem to come out right, echoing inside his skull. He was tired - exhausted, even. He should have been sleeping, but adrenaline and excitement drove him. Close . . . he was so _close_ . . .

  


"I don't know why," she continued, turning her eyes to his book, touching the pages with her fingertips, "you continue to read these books - as if you could puzzle out the mysteries of time, Harry, honestly." She blew out a soft sigh. "You're just torturing yourself."

  


It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her, to explain it to her. She might understand. But when he looked into her face, he saw the presence of weary logic, logic that embraced all things because it dared not refute them.

  


Would she understand the fire that drove him? Yes. And yet, iron bands of intellect bound her. She could never follow.

  


"Perhaps," he said, speaking for the first time in days. He'd been alone in his room too long.

  


For a moment, he thought about inviting her to stay and talk for a while. But he couldn't think of anything for them to say, so he returned to his book in a clear dismissal.

  


Hermione sighed again, but left. He heard her voice a few moments later, from the hallway outside his door. She was speaking to Lupin - ". . . he won't listen to me, Remus. He trusts you more. Perhaps you'll have better luck . . ."

  


Lupin entered the room. Harry felt subtle chills wind themselves around his spine and heart. He swivelled in his chair to look at the man, unwilling to distress him by keeping his face turned away.

  


He stood by the doorway, traced lightly in lamplight from desk and hallway. He looked weary and sad, as he always did - he watched Harry with a sort of exhausted sorrow. "You must stop locking yourself away like this," he said. "Nothing good can come of it."

  


Harry wondered at that, wondered if he really believed that.

  


When Harry remained silent, Lupin left his post and came to Harry's side, much as Hermione had. "Come outside, at least for a while. Take yourself away from . . . all of this." He gestured, perhaps meaning the room, perhaps meaning the house as a whole.

  


Harry shook his head, his mouth pressed into a stubborn line. Lupin smiled sadly, as if it was nothing more than what he had expected. A warm hand rested on his shoulder, offering comfort, sympathy, and then he, too, was gone, and Harry was by himself again.

  


He turned back to his book. Fire and ice dwelled within in perfect duality - it was the ice that made this possible, this constant studying - it was the fire that made it necessary.

  


"Perhaps he'll talk to Ron?" he heard Hermione say from far off.

  


"No," Harry said loudly, so that she would hear. "I won't."

  


Rage filled him, making him tremble - resolute, he bent his head, and gave himself up to research.~

  
  
  


Books and books and more books. Harry's room at 12 Grimmauld Place was filled with them. Tables and shelves were piled high, his bed covered, the floor occasionally hidden from sight. It was Hermione with the scholarly tendencies, but Harry had the natural drive, the sheer brilliance.

  


When his father was sixteen, he became an Animagus in just three years. Even Minerva McGonagall took almost four times as long. What else had James been capable of?

  


Harry sought the answer to that question, proving it with his every action. The Sorting Hat had been right, he would have done well in Slytherin. His ambition was second to none - but without his Gryffindor bravery, he never would have dared.

  


Now he sat on the edge of his bed, James' Invisibility Cloak across his lap, his eyes unfocused.

  


A passage from a tome of theoretical musings said it best: _"For most of us, the concept of time is linear. There is the past (that which has happened), the future (what will come), and the present (the moment we experience). We are surrounded by what has happened, isolated in what we experience, and blind to what awaits. But step far enough away from the human tapestry, and you find a stream, a clear path carved through the wilderness of the universe."_

  


Harry let his eyes close, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose as he remembered the rest of the text. _"For most of us. But for some, time is not linear - instead, it's a tree firmly rooted in mysterious essence, from which a thousand paths spring, each dependent upon a select few events. If one changes a single occurrence - a birth, a death, a moment of fear, or of courage - a brand-new future could be unleashed upon the world . . ."_

  


The book had not, Harry remembered vaguely, discussed the moral quandary that would come with such power. Playing God. Intoxicating and frightening at once. What audacity one needed to even consider it a viable solution.

  


Harry was not in Gryffindor for nothing.

  


He tugged the cloak around him and left his room, treading silently through the dark and gloomy corridors that Sirius used to haunt, that Lupin haunted in his stead. The door was left open, as Hermione and Ron were moving their things out, finally having found an affordable flat. The house would be empty without them, but Lupin and Harry knew they wanted out, away, from the grim memories of the Second War.

  


He waited for Ron to carry out a box, restraining the surge of hatred he always felt around his former friend, and followed him into the cold air outside.

  


It had been months since he'd scented a breeze, since he'd felt one upon his skin. But he took no notice of the air or the night, wrapping his Cloak tight around him and making his way to the Ministry of Magic.

  


Hermione's thirteen-year-old voice seemed to whisper in his ear: _"It's called a Time-Turner, and I got it from Professor McGonagall on our first day back. I've been using it all year to get to all my lessons . . . She had to write all sorts of letters to the Ministry of Magic so I could have one. She had to tell them that I was a model student, and that I'd never, ever use it for anything except my studies . . . I've been turning it back so I could do hours over again, that's how I've been doing several lessons at once, see . . . ?_"

  


It took him a while to figure out exactly where the Ministry kept the Time Turners. It didn't bother him at all that they were hidden in the Department of Mysteries - no matter how terrible it was, it couldn't be worse than the version he saw in his nightmares.

  


It was risky and dangerous. Many wizards accidentally killed their past or future selves when they tried.

  


But none of those wizards were Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Boy Who Defeated Voldemort, the Boy Who Was So Like Dumbledore That People Whispered of Shared Blood. He didn't have the man's genius for spell-casting, granted, but no else's accomplishments even rivaled his own.

  


And none of those wizards - not even the great Dumbledore - possessed the edge that Harry did.

  
  
  


~It was nearing the end of Harry's sixth year - Hogwarts was almost deserted, as Dumbledore had already asked all of the students to go home. "To remain here," he told them, powerful and wise from his dais, "is to remain a target."

  


Most everyone had left - Lupin was still there, working for the Order, and Hermione and Ron were in Dumbledore's office. Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy - the Order's spies - were with them.

  


Supposedly.

  


"You shouldn't wander about like this," Harry said, surprising himself. Draco turned to look at him. "If someone saw you . . ." He left it at that.

  


Draco stared at him insolently, and shrugged. But he did step away from the window. Awkward silence weighted the air between them for several long minutes.

  


"Why do you bother to pretend?" Harry finally asked, voice heavy. "No one's about."

  


Draco sat on a desk, where he could see out the window without being visible. "What if one of us dies?" he asked, voice tight and worried.

  


"That doesn't have anything to do with it, and you know it."

  


"Oh, but it does." Draco turned hollow eyes to look at him. "Every time I see you, I see death." A twisted smile curled his mouth. "You don't see it because you hold it at bay. But one day, you're going to kill me."

  


Harry stepped to his side, noting the little shivers, noting the way his eyes closed when Harry got too close. He touched his hand to the curve of his neck and was met with a hot, almost angry look, that sent a chill down his spine.

  


Draco's hands found his shoulders, pulling him down for a kiss. Something seemed to pass between them, surrender, or grief, maybe, and then Harry yanked himself away. "D'you want me to leave, then?"

  


"No." Draco spread his legs and pulled him close, pressing them body to body, their chests perfectly aligned. They kissed again, slowly, languidly, because for a moment, they had all the time in the world . . . ~

  
  
  


The first thing that Harry had to do was change the settings. The Time Turner was set to only go back a few days at the most - he needed to go back years.

  


It took him quite a while, two days perhaps, in which he didn't sleep and only ate what was absolutely necessary. Dobby made sure Harry got everything he needed - he'd followed Harry from Hogwarts after his graduation, placing himself in Harry's service with Dumbledore's blessing. Even when he nagged, Harry didn't have the heart to be short with him.

  


Sometimes when the house-elf was in the room, fretting over its disarray, or Harry's obvious gloom, he thought back to his second year, when he freed Dobby from Lucius Malfoy's service. He remembered those bulging eyes looking up at him, and the reverent voice that said, _"Harry Potter is by far greater than even Dobby knew . . ."_

  


Sometimes, when he thought about that moment, he felt strong, and thought that maybe he didn't need to do this drastic thing, that maybe he could step away from his research and start living life again. But the feeling inevitably faded.

  


When he finally finished - somewhere between dusk and dawn, not that it made a difference to the constant gloom of the Black House - he shut the door tight and laughed hysterically, for the first time in years. He was so close. _So close . . ._

  


It was dangerous, this obsession, desperate. He wondered what Lupin would say, if Harry told him - or Dumbledore, perhaps. What emotions might cross his face? Grief, understanding, shock? Weary acceptance? The headmaster of Hogwarts had learned long ago not to underestimate Harry.

  


When he was calm again, he returned to his desk and lifted the Time Turner. It was twin to the one that he'd seen Hermione use - idly, he wondered if it was the same one, although he had no way of telling. They were all identical, after all.

  


Clutching the device gently in his hand, Harry sank to the hardwood floor, crossing his legs beneath him. It was easy to slip into a meditative trance - Snape taught him the basics so many years ago, in those ill-fated Occulmency lessons, and the rest, Harry had discovered on his own.

  


His breathing slow and even, his body totally relaxed, Harry let his mind slip under, within, outside. Glittering threads of light appeared before him, offerings fit for a king. It reminded him eerily of an old dream - the Department of Mysteries with its endless doors, beckoning and beckoning. A thousand endless choices, the potential for great and terrible things concealed within them all.

  


He had only to stretch out a hand, touch his fingers to a thread, and he could see the stream of events that led up to it. Not every action was important to the future, but a great many of them were - and Harry could see them all.

  


He could see the moments that led to the creation of Voldemort, as Tom Riddle was abused and tortured, as his rage and arrogance grew. He could see his own life, and the countless scenes that shaped him to become the man he was. It was all there, and all he had to do was reach out and sift through it, inspecting the countless possibilities.

  


With the modified Time Turner that rested in his hand, he could travel through the current of time, changing events as he saw fit. Many wizards and witches had tried to do the same. None of them had this power, though, to peer into the stream and see all possible outcomes - only Harry had that, the product of his endless research.

  


Too much power. Surely, this was too much power for one person to have. Surely, stars would explode and suns would die, were he to try to wield it, this power - but it was there, in his hand, in his mind, lifted from the books that he surrounded himself with. It was his, and Harry was beyond caring about any repercussions he might pull down upon himself.

  
  
  


~He was sitting in Sirius' old bedroom, curled up in an armchair that seemed oddly out of place. The rest of the room was dark and dusty - it had been six months since Sirius' death, after all. No one had a reason to dust this impromptu memorial, and no one visited it but Harry and Lupin.

  


The door opening drew his thoughts. He looked up and saw Tonks standing there, lurid hair bright in the half-lit room. She spotted him instantly.

  


"What're you doing in here, Harry?" she asked, unusually quiet.

  


Harry let his eyes fall half-shut again. "Just thinking," he said, a bit more sharply than he had intended.

  


Tonks didn't seem to mind. She walked carefully into the room, as though fearful that she might send the sparse furniture flying - but if anybody could, it would be Tonks.

  


"Everyone's worried about you, you know," she said abruptly. "You should see Molly fret - come downstairs, there's nothing to see here."

  


Harry ignored this.

  


"Because Harry - I'm sorry, d'you know that? I'm sorry for what I'm going to say, and it'll make you hate me, but I can deal with that." Tonks sat on the end of Sirius' bed, staring at him with wide, anxious eyes. She looked pretty in the gloom, and Harry wondered if it was really her appearance, or something she made up.

  


She took a deep breath. "He's dead," she said, quickly, as if this was news. "He's gone, and he can't come back. Carrying on like this - Harry, it's not going to help."

  


Hoarsely, Harry said, "Shut up."

  


Tonks looked grieved, but she continued. "Sometimes things get really bad, I know that. And when they do, the thing to do is hold yourself together - because if you break even once, you'll break again even more easily the next time. The cracks are already made and all the glue'll get washed away . . ."

  


Harry stared at lamplight spilling across the carpet. There were no windows in this room, he realized - no wonder Sirius had felt trapped, because there were no windows, not throughout the entire house, absolutely no windows. It had been wrong to lock him up here - rage and grief fluttered against his ribs, like a trapped bird beating its wings. _So wrong._

  


"You're falling apart, Harry, you know it as well as I do. The grief and guilt is killing you - you have to move on, step back."

  


Again, Harry said, "Shut up." He could believe he was saying it to her - he liked her, he was never so rude, but -

"There's nothing wrong with stepping back when you need to," Tonks finished, voice soft. She seemed to be on the verge of tears, but Harry couldn't tell if that was from some memory dredged up by her speech, or something he had done. "It's better than being overwhelmed - better than pulling everyone else down with you. Harry -" And then she caught the look in his eye and bit her lip, shook her head. 

  


She left as quietly as she had entered, extra-careful not to bump so much as the dust in the carpet.

  


When she was gone, he pulled his knees up to his chin and sat by himself, staring blankly into the darkness.~

  
  
  


Harry stood in a bedroom with two beds, hidden by the Invisibility Cloak. Two boys were sleeping - one red-haired and gangly, a younger, lighter-voiced version of the man he would become. The other - dark-haired and restless in sleep, similar to Harry in appearance, but practically a stranger for all that he had become.

  


Harry watched himself, watched Ron. Looking at this version of his friend wiped away some of his rage - he looked innocent, so terribly young. Harry had not thought himself to be so young when he was that age, but he was, and he wondered what it would be like one day, at sixty, seventy, to look back on his fifteen-year-old self and think of what he'd been. He couldn't imagine.

  


But he hadn't come here to look at Ron or himself. He tip-toed from the room, in case anyone was within hearing distance. He almost bumped into Mrs. Weasely - she was standing silently at the end of the hall, looking in on the twins with a terrible expression on her face, a mixture of pride and fear.

  


Harry turned away, unwilling to watch what was really a private moment. He slipped down the stairs, careful to avoid the ones that creaked - he knew this house like the back of his hand, by this point.

  


It seemed that everyone else was asleep, except for Mrs. Weasely and a pair of voices in the kitchen. Harry sought out Crookshanks, poking the cat to wakefulness and transfiguring a Dungbomb into a fly. A moment later, Crookshanks tore into the kitchen after the bug. Harry gave the door an extra nudge, so that he could slip inside.

  


Sirius and Lupin looked up, saw Crookshanks, and returned to their conversation.

  


"- and you should have let me tell him more," Sirius was saying. "If he finds out that Voldemort's been trying to possess him, and we didn't tell him about it, he'll think it's because we don't trust him!"

  


Lupin looked tired of the argument. "It wouldn't do any good, Sirius - you know Harry, he'd probably run away to the Dursleys, or refuse to return to Hogwarts. We've been over this -"

  


Harry felt a tiny grin slip across his face, remembering his conversation with Phineas and how close he _did_ come to running away to 4 Privet Drive. Lupin knew him far too well.

  


"Yes, a thousand times before, but if you think he'd be upset now, think about how upset he'll be when he _does_ find out! What if something happens -"

  


"Nothing is going to happen!" When Sirius would have slammed his hands into the table, Lupin grabbed them and sat in a chair next to him. "Listen to me, will you!"

  


"You told me nothing would happen last year," Sirius accused, "and look what did!"

  


Lupin flinched slightly. "You know damn well I couldn't have predicted that - don't you dare throw that into my face -"

  


Sirius seemed to slump, his anger evaporating abruptly. Elbows resting on the scarred table, he stared moodily at the wall, mouth tight. Finally, he turned his head slightly and said, "I'm - it's just - I'm worried about him."

  


Lupin released his hands. "So am I," he said, still short. "We're all worried about him. Picking fights with Molly won't help - you shouldn't make him choose between the two of you -"

  


Sirius hunched over even more, and Lupin stopped. They sat next to each other in uneasy silence.

  


Harry watched them, touched by their compassion and affection. But he'd already seen this conversation in a vision, so the impact was lost on him.

  


Instead, he stared at Sirius - it was good to see him after so long, painfully good, almost like losing him again. He longed to throw off his cloak and talk to him - tell him all of the things that had happened, how sorry he was, what an idiot he'd been, and how terribly, terribly much he had missed him. His body seemed to shake with the force of it all.

  


But that wasn't what he'd come here for, either. And if he did his job right . . .

  


He tip-toed to the far corner of the room, so that Lupin and Sirius had their backs to him. In the vision - in the original series of events - they sat in silence, before Lupin finally left to go to his room, leaving so many things trapped in the air between them, things that needed to be said.

  


Harry knew well what would happen if they remained unspoken. Sirius would retreat further into himself - in contrast, Lupin would spend more and more time away from the Black house. And when Harry would descend into the Department of Mysteries, Sirius would insist upon following him, unwilling to trust even Lupin. The love between them would be transformed into a barrier that prevented communication.

  


This was one of the last opportunities they'd get. If something didn't draw Sirius out, he'd be a desperate, angry man . . . reckless . . .

  


Harry knew just the spell.

  


Sliding his wand from the cover of his cloak, he whispered, _"Liberigi!"_ A simple Tongue-Loosening Charm - nothing too powerful, just enough to . . . prod Sirius in the right direction.

  


He really didn't want to stay and watch, he was sure that Sirius and Lupin would have minded very much. But he had to make sure it worked.

  


Sirius turned quickly to Lupin, who'd just been preparing to leave. He glanced at him curiously for a moment, then frowned. "Sirius?"

  


Sirius was watching him, looking as if he was fighting to swallow something back. But then he reached out and took Lupin's hands, much as Lupin had taken his earlier, but much more gently. Harry ducked his head, smiling.

  


"I . . ." Sirius shook his head, wetted his mouth. "D'you remember, when I showed up at your house a few months ago and I told you . . ." He stopped again, staring resolutely at the floor.

  


Lupin smiled faintly, still clearly puzzled, but hopeful. "I remember."

  


"Well, I've been thinking, and . . ." A self-deprecating grin flashed across Sirius' face. ". . . and you're a bloody idiot for letting me make any kind of important decision like that, you really should have stopped me."

  


Lupin laughed quietly, holding Sirius' hands just a bit more tightly. "It was your decision to make."

  


"And I had to make it badly, of course." Sirius looked up, freed his hand from Lupin's and caught his chin.

  


Harry flipped the Time Turner just as their mouths met in a warm kiss. Electric warmth filled his veins - he was so close to having the life he'd wanted, he'd deserved, and if he hadn't left when he did, he might have yanked off his cloak and started singing out of pure joy.

  
  
  


~It was just after Voldemort's final death. Harry managed to pull himself away from the battle bloodied and broken, barely a shell of what he'd been before, immersed in grief and madness from his imprisonment with the Dark Lord and his Dementors.

  


It was Hermione and Lupin who looked after him then - Ginny was there at times, of course, and so was her mother. Dumbledore stopped in often as well, guilt and sorrow lacing his features like the lines of his face.

  


Ron stayed away. Harry refused to have anything to do with him - Hermione didn't understand, but Lupin seemed to. Hermione didn't seem to understand anything that had happened to him. Yes, she held him when he wept, she woke him from his nightmares, and she was there, always, with her worried eyes, but never once did he see sympathy or understanding. Just painful confusion and terrible remorse - sometimes, when she thought he was sleeping, he would hear her whisper to him, "Harry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I would've done anything to spare you that," over and over again, like a mantra.

  


It was Lupin, though, who he turned to most often - Lupin, who had lost so much, who had been such a quiet, overlooked constant in his life. Lupin, who finally told Harry about his relationship with Sirius, and how Sirius asked to end it. Lupin, who told him how James eventually won Lily over, how one day Lily exploded at Sirius, enraged at how he treated Snape - throwing his dark heritage into his face and accusing him of fear.

  


"After that, Sirius never said anything to him when she was around," he said, eyes distant with memory. "I think Snape hated her for that, for protecting him that way. He couldn't stand it."

  


"_Was_ he afraid?" Harry asked, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

  


"Of Severus? No. But of their similarities . . . his potential . . . of that, he was terrified."

  


Harry remembered the handsome, arrogant boy from the Pensieve, and whispered to himself: _he was afraid_.

  


And when it seemed his heart might break with that terrible knowledge - that he had doubted Sirius at all, that this man he had admired and loved had known fear, so acutely, and that he was gone now - when it seemed that the world must shatter with the injustice of it all, it was to Lupin whom he wept, Lupin who never wept tears of his own, although his eyes often glittered with them, unshed.

  


Harry did not think of Draco. He couldn't; his mind went blank if he tried, and he would find come to himself hours later, shaking and trembling in Hermione's arms.

  


One day Hermione convinced him to venture back into the world, and reluctantly, he went with her. People stared at him in equal parts fear and awe - fear, because Harry could be the next Dark Lord if he so chose, and his eyes were distant and cold with the horrors he had witnessed. It seemed impossible that he would ever manage to free himself from them completely, ever manage to make something good out of his life.

  


That was the day Harry bought the first of what would be many books. _The Thoughts of a Wizard on the Nature of Our Time - An In-Depth Look Into Why the World Ages and Dies._

  


He didn't go out much after that. He remembered when Hermione finally gave up and called Dumbledore.

  


The ancient wizard stood in the entrance of Harry's room, watching the young man read intently. When Harry finally glanced up, he made his offer, a tiny smile on his lips. "Would you like to teach at Hogwarts? Once again, we have an opening for Defense Against the Dark Arts - I daresay, there are few more skilled in such an area as yourself."

  


Shock coursed through him. He thought,_ I could do that. I could go back there, be happy - teaching people defense, I've done it before. Even without them . . . without Draco and Sirius . . . I could make a life there . . . become the next Dumbledore. I know I could . . ._

  


But then he glanced down and saw the book he was reading. Grief tore through him as readily as ever, and he thought, _but not if this continues._

  


He declined, and saw the sadness creep into the Headmaster's face. So he knew, too, that there was a choice for Harry to make, here - to wallow and become the next Voldemort, or to rise from his grief (or ashes - wasn't symbolism lovely?) and become the next Dumbledore.~

  
  
  


But even Dumbledore didn't know what Harry was planning, what he was capable of.

  


It took Harry a long time to get to his next destination. There were a thousand little events he needed to change - with his enhanced 'vision', he could see even the slightest nuances in thought or conversation, and he knew innately which ones to influence, and which ones to leave be.

  


He reached the next main event, the next crossroad, without mishap. Everything had been almost _too _easy - he wondered again what powers he was tempting - crossing - by doing this, and if perhaps they would find a way to retaliate.

  


He found himself in a castle, made of black stone, slime, and steel bars. Muggles wept and screamed from their cages, as wizards huddled and muttered, shying away from the Dementors that only they could see. Harry was not immune: images flashed before his eyes, terrible images that he longed, above all else, to forget.

  


_Draco, huddled, in the dark, surrounded by blood . . . Draco screaming Harry's name, begging for him, throwing curses at his impassive father . . . cold skin under his hands, lips, a body that slept without breath._

  


He shook himself free of the spell. Grim, he drew his determination around himself like a shield, much as Sirius had so many years ago. Without looking from side to side, he strode away.

  


It took him only a moment to find a cage belonging to a familiar young man. Deceptively frail, with white-blond hair and large, gray eyes, he was pressed into the corner, muttering a single name. He was new, so new that his clothes were still clean and the Dementors hadn't tortured him yet.

  


When Harry unlocked the bars, Draco looked up. His mouth opened slightly in disbelief, and then he leapt to his feet.

  


He touched the lock with shaky fingers and scanned the air, searching. Harry did not move from his position, although he risked exposure - God, it was hell, to be so close to him again and not grab him, open his mouth in a kiss, re-learn the shape and taste of his body.

  


The door swung open and Harry stepped back. Draco strolled boldly from the cell. 

  


Harry followed. They both ignored the begging prisoners with ease. They meant nothing to them - they were on a mission for the one they loved, and could not bother to care about the hapless dozens sacrificed so that they might succeed.

  


Harry watched Draco navigate the prison - known as Azkaban, before Voldemort took it over - until he found a cell, a cell that Harry remembered quite well. And he knew the boy locked inside it, curled up and weeping dryly.

  


"Harry," Draco whispered, and Harry lifted his head and was on his feet and they were grabbing each other through the bars, kissing, ignoring the cold steel. Harry watched himself touch Draco, running his hands through that silken hair, and felt an ache of longing.

  


Best to leave. Besides - he already had these memories, didn't he? He knew what interesting things Draco was doing with his tongue, how the feel and smell of him drove away even the effects of the Dementors.

  


Smiling, he flipped the Time Turner. He was almost home.

  
  
  


~Harry tore through the halls, the floors stained with blood, stinking corpses in the cells - rather than allow his prisoners to be freed, Voldemort had killed them all, one by one.

  


He didn't care. He didn't care when he slipped, his knee wrenched, his hands stained with blood and rot. He didn't care, scrambling back to his feet and continuing, something close to a scream bursting out of him as he found the cell he'd been looking for.

  


Draco was still alive. Mostly.

  


Harry ripped the door open - it was left unlocked, a deliberate jab. He wondered if Draco had known, but the sight of him wiped the thought from his mind and nearly made him vomit.

  


"Draco!" Sobbing, choking back bile, Harry felt to his knees. Draco's face was turned away: his hair covered his eyes. Foul, evil symbols were carven into his chest and stomach.

  


Trembling, a strange, moaning sound coming from him - _God, God, let this be a dream, don't make this real, Draco!_ - he touched his fingers to that delicate white jaw and turned his head, and saw that his eyes had been cut out.

  


He'd known of course, because Voldemort had shown them to him, taunted him with them, crushing them beneath his heel. But the sight of it made him scream his grief, his hands drawn to his own face as if to claw out his own eyes.

  


The storm subsided when Draco touched his knee. Harry bent his head, touching their lips together. Draco coughed; Harry tasted blood.

  


"Harry?" His voice was weak and clogged, a shadow of his usual drawl.

  


Harry wasn't coherent - he choked something out, between babbled prayers and Draco's name.

  


Softly, softly, softly, a hand touched his face, pushed the hair from his eyes.

  


And then Draco's hand went limp and he said nothing else, his sluggish breath halting, his body relaxing. Harry sobbed and sobbed, dragging him close, kissing him, longing to force life back into him - when Ron found him there, finally, he was wrapped around Draco's corpse, whispering to no one at all.

  


Ron pried him off, took him away, left Draco there in the blood and foulness. Just left him there, and Harry never really forgave him for that, just like he never forgave him for not getting there sooner.

  


Because it was Ron who saved him. Hermione rallied the Ministry to Dumbledore's cause, but Ron planned every move of the attack with an excruciating precision that no one knew he had. It was Ron who lured the Death Eaters away, and dispatched them with Lupin and Hermione's help. It was Ron who saved Harry, really, and Harry hated him for that, absolutely hated him.

  


He remembered in the weeks after, how Ron tried to talk to him, and they wound up rolling on the floor, throwing punches. They had never fought like this before - he remembered how every pained grunt brought a sick rush of satisfaction.

  


Hermione pried them apart and held Harry back, screaming at them both, and Lupin was there, holding on to Ron.

  


"Doesn't it matter to you at all?" Ron roared, silencing Hermione, startling Lupin - "doesn't it matter at all that I saved your life?"

  


And with all of his strength, his rage, and his hatred, Harry roared back, "NO!" And when the room was filled with an appalled silence, he added, in a whisper, "Because you didn't save him," and he fainted.~

  
  
  


But none of that had happened - not in _this_ version of events.

  


When Harry returned to his room in 12 Grimmauld Place, approximately ten minutes after his first trip backwards in Time, he found it empty. He searched his memories and learned that he no longer lived here - this was Sirius' and Remus' home. He lived just a bit closer to downtown, in an expensive apartment.

  


Giving in to a rampant sense of curiosity, Harry left the room that was not his, making his way down the hall and up a flight of stairs. Here, signs of habitation were evident - windows had been added, the walls had been cleaned. There was still something musty in the air, old, but sunlight poured into the house, chasing away the demons.

  


He found himself on the top floor, where his memories told him Sirius and Remus liked to go. An entire side of the floor had been replaced with glass, and a good part of the ceiling, too. Individual bedrooms had been torn away to make way for this rooftop paradise. A small ways off was a single remaining room - theirs - and in the middle of the spacious room was a couch.

  


Sirius and Remus dozed there together. Harry felt his chest tighten, his heart hitch, at the sight of his godfather.

  


Of course, he had many memories of him, new memories; memories of his health, his shining hair, his natural, wicked smile. But this was the first time he had _really_ seen Sirius healthy - his hair had been cropped, his face was full, his body was strong. Remus lied in his arms, still careworn, but also healthier than Harry had ever imagined he could be. They looked younger than ever, the light of happiness shining from beneath their skin.

  


He stood beneath the Cloak, biting his lip and weeping softly, because in this time - this universe - Sirius had never died, Remus had never mourned, and Harry had never felt something in him shatter into a million pieces.

  


He longed to grab them both, hug them, kiss them, tell them how much they and their happiness meant to him, but he couldn't. He couldn't tell them - couldn't imagine their reactions and the fear in their faces. The fear in his _own_ face - again, he wondered, what consequences there would be for his daring.

  


But maybe there would be none. Maybe no one was watching.

  


Maybe they would allow him this selfishness, after everything he had done, after the grim life that he had known.

  


Maybe.

  


He Apparated close to his apartment, still swathed in the Invisibility Cloak, and walked to the private elevator. Stepping into the penthouse was like coming home, his own home, prepared in advance of his arrival, but complete in every way. The dishes in the sink, the chairs left pushed out, the desk with parchment strewn across it - it was flawless in its casual perfection. He started to weep again.

  


There were a few disconcerting moments - he looked at the paintings on the wall and had memories of them, but he also had memories of his room at 12 Grimmauld Place. He remembered picking these things out, but the memories were overlaid with another life, lived in grief and solitude.

  


It was hard to separate the two. Existing like this - two people tangled together into one - would be incredibly difficult. He might go mad.

  


He went into the bedroom, placing his Cloak in a drawer as he always did. He pulled off his old clothes - black and faded - and pulled on a jumper and slacks, robes.

  


He'd called in sick to work, he remembered with amazement - told his boss, Kingsley Shacklebolt, that he felt a bit under the weather. His stint as an Auror would be coming to a close soon, as he returned to Hogwarts in order to teach, after a year of 'practical experience'. Not that he hadn't gotten enough of that with Voldemort, but he wanted something real, something that wasn't so painful.

  


He dredged up the memory of that morning. He'd woken with his head pounding dully, and curled back up in bed . . . Of course, Harry had known that this would happen - it was why he'd chosen today to travel through time, so that he wouldn't have to worry about leaving work. But the Harry of this world did not know that.

  


He remembered that Draco kissed him on the forehead, still half-asleep, and went off to work at the Ministry, promising that he'd say hi to Hermione for him . . .

  


Laughing, overwhelmed with it all, Harry flopped into his and Draco's bed, tears streaming down his face. He was so _glad_. So much disaster and grief - gone. He had wished and prayed that he would get them back one day, and he had, _he'd done it._ There was no more need to mourn and long for all the things that could never be.

  


They were here. They were alive.

  


Something in his stomach released and went away. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt at peace.

  


A bit reluctantly, he got out of bed and found some parchment. He wrote a long letter, detailing his long journey of another life - the things he had done, the things he had changed. He talked about his anguish and his despair, the long hours he spent studying. He wrote down all his memories of Remus, acknowledging a friendship that didn't exist quite so deeply in this time.

  


He finished the letter with half an hour to spare. He Apparated in front of 12 Grimmauld Place and snuck into the kitchen.

  


Dobby was there, as he'd known he would be - since he and Draco could hardly have an house-elf in a Muggle apartment, Harry asked him to work for Sirius, with the knowledge that he or his children would inherit the house one day. Dobby had been reluctant, although he'd become quite fond of Sirius, as he always greeted Dobby's mismatched socks with great enthusiasm.

  


Before Dobby could bow or start chattering, Harry knelt to speak.

  


"Dobby," he said. "I need you to keep something for me."

  


"Of course, Harry Potter, anything Harry Potter needs, Dobby will do -"

  


"Thanks, Dobby," Harry interrupted wryly. "I need you to take this letter. Never show it to anyone, not even me. Give it to your children, and tell them to give it to theirs - tell them never to read it, not until two hundred years have passed. And then give it to my descendants, if I have any, or Ron's and Hermione's if I don't."

  


Dobby nodded eagerly. Harry grinned at him one last time and left quickly. He didn't have much time left.

  


He Apparated directly into his and Draco's bedroom. Without wasting any time, pointed his wand at himself - _"Obliviate!"_

  


He thought for a moment, and then began to speak, selecting the memories from his past life, erasing them all. As he told himself to forget them, they vanished from his mind, until the only thing left of his past life was the research he had done, learning to find the strands of time, and the knowledge that he had gone on this desperate mission -- that in another universe, Sirius and Draco had not lived.

  


He waited until he had only a few minutes left, savoring his success, and then erased those memories, too.

  


And then he was done.

  
  
  


He stood in the middle of his and Draco's bedroom, feeling slightly dazed. He'd had a headache, he remembered vaguely - but what was he doing out of bed?

  


Confused, he shook his head and staggered into the kitchen. Why was he wearing these robes around the house? Frowning irritably at himself, Harry pulled them off, tossing them onto the back of a chair. He yanked off the jumper, too, sighing in relief as cool air wafted over him.

  


He grabbed a bottle of water and staggered back into the bedroom, flopping onto the bed with abandon. He glanced at the clock and realized that Draco would be home soon.

  


Draco got home a bit early, in fact - not even three minutes later, Harry heard the elevator slide open. He rolled to face the door, smiling as Draco's drawl rang out.

  


"Some particular reason why your clothes are in the kitchen, Potter?"

  


Harry waited till he was in the doorway to respond. "I woke up wearing them," he said, forgetting that he'd woken up in the middle of his room. "I don't know why."

  


"Sleep-dressing? Sounds serious."

  


Harry snorted and held out his hand, inviting Draco to join him. Pulling his shirt over his head, leaving the starched cotton to pile on the floor, he did.

  


Harry rested his head on Draco's shoulder with a sigh, a little too warm from all the body contact, but too attached to the feel of Draco's skin to entertain the thought of moving away. There were a few moments of peaceful silence, and then Draco kissed the crown of his head.

  


"Feeling better?"

  


"Mm, just drowsy."

  


Tender kisses traced the line of his forehead, his scar, the curve of his eyebrows. "Feel like eating something?"

  


"Sure."

  


Harry let Draco pull him out of bed and into the kitchen. As he sat in a chair, a dark glimpse from a nightmare flashed across his mind - Draco, injured, blinded, dead.

  


Harry turned to look at him from across the room, hunting through the fridge like a great tiger, muttering about the fact that Harry was supposed to go shopping.

  


Sunlight streamed into the room, glittering off of white surfaces and tile, dazzling his eyes. It was hard to imagine anything grim in this environment - and Harry knew better than to dwell on nightmares. They were just dreams, after all.

  


Draco turned and caught his eye. "Something wrong?"

  


Harry shook his head and yawned. Draco brought him leftover Chinese food and chopsticks - he insisted that Harry use them, purely for the amusement factor - and then they sat together, in the sunlight, for just a little while longer.


End file.
